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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27701491">The Light that the Fire Would Bring</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starffledust/pseuds/Starffledust'>Starffledust</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Feels, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Aziraphale-centric (Good Omens), Biblical Themes (Abrahamic Religions), Canon Compliant, Cherrypicking canon from the tv and book verses, Comfort/Angst, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley shows up at the very end, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Introspection, It's mostly Aziraphale, M/M, Mentioned Warlock Dowling, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Songfic, This isn't shippy. The ship is just implied. Heavily</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 04:00:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,936</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27701491</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starffledust/pseuds/Starffledust</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps, there were no cards in this game of existence that had yet to be overturned. Each hand not so perfectly placed, and yet losers preached their luck in shouts of crowns and snake tongues. They had come to the end, where elements of earth lay only in the deal of Eden.</p><p>And, perhaps, just maybe, fire could be comforting, a force against rain when that rain changed from pleasant to chilling.</p><p>(Title and work based on Passerine by The Oh Hellos)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale &amp; Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Light that the Fire Would Bring</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is my first fic here, and I don't know how formatting works. I tried my best.</p><p>Based on this song here: https://youtu.be/Vx-oLkW5vv0</p><p>The tone of the writing changed halfway through to be much more bittersweet while the song is more intense, but the lyrics are the most important part anyway. Also, this is more of a style practice than anything and people have said it can be hard to understand if you're not in the right mindset to parse through prose. Just be warned.</p><p>Footnotes at the endnote.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Blood could not sink through carpet so dense, so red and rich; but the soft pad of shoes and the hushed voices lay abandoned in the hallway, trampled by enthusiastic dancers as they returned to the ballroom. Carpet receded into tile, where those same shoes tapped and scraped against the ground in age-old dances.</p><p>To the side, musicians played their talent into the night, and outside water fell in a constant drumming.</p><p>Walls sparkled in golden tinsel, and silhouettes of silver pranced across each surface. The floor shimmered in well-polished glory, and under it all lay a bunker of chiming cacophony. It itched under the skin, an ugliness feathered with silk plumes and deep red coats.</p><p>
  <em> Like carillon bells, the house of Augustus rings </em>
</p><p>A bell rang at the eleventh mark—the twenty-third ring since morning. It shook the ground, a vibration running through the tiles of the ballroom.<sup>1</sup></p><p>
  <em> With the echoing hymn of my fellow passerine, they took to it </em>
</p><p>Like loose fire over a hill, royal colors and loyal soldiers had once fallen through the heavens at such a sound. White feathers burned into black and the joyful cries of victory filled every surface like water to a slope.</p><p>Through it, Aziraphale breathed.</p><p>He did not need to breathe, truly, but with each breath the flames blurred and reduced, their oxygen gone. Dancers—nobles and well-hidden paupers alike—lost their shape, like their corporations had been stolen from Earth. Flames consumed the room, shadows cast and twirling where once the great shimmer of Roman glory rested. Tapestries curled away from the floors, curtains catching alight with the flames of candles used among the tables.</p><p>He hummed to himself from his position on the side, a small whisper which cleared his vision from the scalding light; his eyes still burned. </p><p>
  <em> Like a fox to a burrow, like an eagle to an aerie </em>
</p><p>He did not touch cloth; if they were Hellfire, one movement may topple them to the ground. Nor did he touch the silver, which lay nestled upon the table, for fear that anything but his own hands had grown warm under the room’s contortion. Even the greatest concoction of wine could not douse the fire, and even the greatest chefs could never raise dough in the crematory of ballrooms.</p><p>For eons it seemed he sought to cool himself, with each glance and each fiddle of his coat. Even having lived these times, Time as he had lived seemed irrelevant to the hour which passed in discomfort, small smiles and anxious shifting creating friction which only set the room alight once more.</p><p>Upon the mountain rang another bell, the striking of midnight which he had read about in fairytales. The story had rustled within the pages for decades—hardly any time at all, even to a human life—and with each new tear it taped itself into reality, sewing shut the binding which separated fiction from truth. It had been translated wrong, perverted from the words of Grimm and morphed into burning dancers where once glass shone from their agile steps.<sup>2</sup></p><p>
  <em> And my god, it's getting hard to even hum a single thing </em>
</p><p>Stained glass windows had marked the cathedrals of Earth, and now the chandelier above mocked the old colors of worship. Like Heaven, this hellish party with its bleak light and polished floor. Like Hell, in the sense that the laughter of companionship seemed to sneer in the face of such luxury. They laughed in privilege, in a greed for more, a vice which had once become their downfall.</p><p>Now the slope had flattened, and a horrible silence stretched from where once resided an orchestra of life.</p><p>
  <em> You were the song that I'd always sing </em>
</p><p>Air seemed so scarce now—its presence wanted with human conviction—and Aziraphale searched desperately for the door; a staircase; a courtyard; a garden.</p><p>A garden.</p><p>He spotted a garden through the east windows, so much smaller than the Garden and yet just right for the descendants of Eden, even those who had once failed to protect it. </p><p>
  <em> You were the light that the fire would bring </em>
</p><p>There, in the Garden, fire had not been associated with the enemy—something to both fight with and defend against. There, fire had been his own; it had been his to hold and wield. Fire had been only a tool through which to do his job.</p><p>His legs trembled in steps toward the east wing. Always to the east. East is where his domain resided, where She had granted him charter and sword to defend with his immortal life. East had been his ethical drama, where every aspect of his being had been lit aflame with doubt and charred with the interests of men.<sup>3</sup></p><p><em> Ineffable </em> had been the word of his escape, spoken anxiously to demons and turned into a weapon to defend his decision. To the only other presence, he had poured away his worries and watched the desert’s scorching sand as the first storm brewed overhead—and one also stirred within himself, for he knew that the being beside him had been the very reason for these troubles.</p><p>
  <em> But I can't shake this feeling that I was only </em>
</p><p>Stuttering, he had called back to his own failures, skirting around the anger which threatened to consume him and plunging his own corporation into the dirt of Eden, so soft and suffocating and <em> cold. </em></p><p>And yet, despite the shivering and phantom pain of duty failed, the chill rushed up his spine, dousing a weapon which he no longer held; he felt a blind elation. Across all of the fear, all of the worry—for he did not feel regret, and never would he for choosing his own path—there was a sense of freedom, an instinctual joy in rebellion.</p><p>It was <em> dangerous— </em> unapologetically wrong, even in its pettiness. In its pettiness, it was not a threat to the higher powers. But the higher powers—the ones a step below ultimate glory and with whom he interacted the most; the ones he could not name—he knew, would disagree. <sup>4</sup></p><p>Fraternizing, they’d call it, and so he’d adopted the word, if only to remind himself of his place. He had no such words in the Garden—perhaps when he needed them the most.</p><p>But, nowadays, they surrounded him. Paper and air, written and spoken. Never again would there be a loss for words in his new life.</p><p>
  <em> Pushing the spear into your side again </em>
</p><p>His old life held no such luxury.</p><p>A torch, the blade sharp and glinting under the sun, was the only beacon of his purpose, the last connection to the War which had shaped no soldier inside of him. He had watched it in man’s first hold while heavy clouds rolled over.</p><p>Presently—though as if in a dream where he held no power—shoes hit the stones of the courtyard, drenched in the sky’s rain, and the fire burned behind him, searing his back with the forgotten denial and frustration long past. Laughter had followed through the windows, crystal chandeliers beaming through like divine light.</p><p>Water poured down from the sky, but he did not shelter himself from the cold, letting droplets cling to his coat and hair until they soaked darker and darker; turning rainbows to lies and doves to hide in their nests, with olive branches tucked safely under their wings.</p><p>
  <em> See, my birds of a kind, they more and more are looking like </em>
</p><p>He felt the stirring of his own feathers through his waterlogged coat, through the many layers which protected his skin from the very nature that he had sworn to protect.</p><p>But that had never been his domain, he reminded himself as he uncurled his wings. Light grey and dishevelled, he watched mournfully as the droplets of earthly water ran down the downy plumage.<sup>5</sup></p><p>Perhaps it was but a simple irony that his form should be built after Her favorite creations—or as was widely accepted as her favorite creations, for Armageddon, the supposed end, had brought nothing but more time to come; and with time came opportunity for change.</p><p>Birds had been symbols of spirits for centuries, for the—and he really did wish those words could help him now, to pick thoroughly through them and find anything else to say but—<em> damn humans, </em>their symbols of wings and dreams of flight giving them a semblance of freedom which Her gift of freewill had not bestowed correctly upon their greedy souls.</p><p>Birds had been their apologies, their companions, their fears, and Her messengers.</p><p>Angels had been Her messengers once, but they were often prideful creatures, for all that it was a sin. From the great expanse of Heaven above they looked down upon humans as the earth evolved. He had watched as humans slowly developed further their prejudice and lost their wonder and innocent fright of the world. </p><p>A shame, that such things could end. The only remnants of this age, as far as he could tell, were the pressings of inks upon pages and the knowledge of old summoning chants. There was no more of what had passed, and he must accept that, despite all that he wished to change it.</p><p>It had never been Aziraphale’s place to interfere with Time.</p><p>
  <em> Centurions than any little messiah </em>
</p><p>No, nature had never been his. The Garden had never been his, for his place was upon its walls and edges, tucked in corners. Apple tree duty. Under the shaded arches of Her design, he was sheltered with greenery, leaning against the cold stone and brittle bark which led the way to sand or sap if one cut deep enough.</p><p>No, it was never his—none of it: plants, soil, or color—but he had loved it nonetheless. That was his duty: to love. He offered it willingly to the Garden, to its inhabitants, and to Her. It was a love from a car to a street, a house cat to their food bowl.</p><p>An empty devotion.</p><p>It was a worthless feeling born of servitude, reflected in chilling violet eyes and pristine coats. The sterile walls of Heaven itself reeked of the infection, of the stolen love which Aziraphale once believed to have flowed from its walls.</p><p>Or perhaps not.</p><p>
  <em> And as I prune my feathers like leaves from a vine </em>
</p><p>Memories faded, and even immortals could not keep every moment to themselves. Like sand, records of the past were pulled into the ocean of creation, and only She could find any particular grain.</p><p>He could never be sure again what Heaven had felt, but it had not been love. He knew it wasn’t. </p><p>Love, he had learned, was not in nature. No, it could not be born of pure physicality. Love is what had borne generations of hope, what had brought together unlikely allies, and what remained of the most perplexing ethics in humanity.</p><p>Love was not born from authority or obligation, as She had seemed to think—or not, who could tell? </p><p>Love, if Aziraphale were forced to describe it, was akin to wine. Red or white, rich or pale, love could purify any water.<sup>6</sup> What was that saying? <em> The blood of the convent is thicker than the water of the womb? </em>Humans could be quite witty with those words, if they wished to be.</p><p>Wine, he supposed, replaced blood in the metaphor. </p><p>Intoxication, he knew, was his main goal in his consumption of it—both the metaphysical conundrum, of love and the human fruit of the vine—for he wished desperately to forget the reality of Heaven and Hell. In lieu of his duties, he had snuck carefully along the edge, his work completed only by miracles and Arrangement.<sup>7</sup></p><p>Conspiratorial nights hung in abundance from the vine of time, and, despite efforts, they could not be plucked. Their stems held strong against lies, and wine supplied each stalk with the power to withstand the flames of Hell and Heaven alike. </p><p>Flames crowded his vision once more, and Aziraphale shook them away, dutifully returning attention to his feathers. He shook them lightly to release some of the moisture, only for the rain to continue its determined deluge.</p><p>He sighed, resigned to fate as he tucked his now drenched wings away. Little good they could do him overhead. </p><p>He could feel the water melt from them as they were stored away, as if ice on a fire, and he shivered under the sensation—the sensation of earth, of cold soil and cooling water.</p><p>
  <em> I find that we have fewer and fewer in kind, but </em>
</p><p>Feathers would collect over the next few days. Perhaps a week. Plumage would nest inside book pages and under sofas, and his fingers would run repeatedly through them like a mad dog down a street. Never finishing, always unkempt.</p><p>It was a sign of vanity if not. Even in the most compulsive state, Heaven frowned upon the frivolity of well-kept feathers, for wings were rarely shown except in the blazing glory of battle or the sparse privacies of rooms.<sup>8</sup></p><p>He often wondered if others felt this: if, perhaps, they did not—or, if they did, did they succumb? </p><p>Or was he always to be the inferior one?</p><p>
  <em> My palms and fingers still reek of gasoline </em>
</p><p>His palms itched with the urge, the longing to run fingers through feathers, even as they dripped with rainwater.</p><p>They would be darker grey under his hands, weighed down from the moisture.</p><p>He would not look, for only a certain snake would come to mind in this state.</p><p>The room was still lit behind him, and, in lieu of wings, his hands took to his arms, rubbing against the cloth for warmth which would not burn. He moved slowly in his sodden socks, coming to stand under the bow of a nearby tree.</p><p>He leaned against the bark, remembering sunny skies, untouched by rain clouds, and the conspiracies of dichotomous fruits. He could almost feel the gentle grass under his feet, even through his shoes.</p><p>
  <em> From throwing fuel to the fire of that Greco-Roman dream </em>
</p><p>Aziraphale could not remember why he came here, why he had attended this party with only himself for company. Something about restoration and a certain method of book binding, a mortal noble and his knowledge of prophecies, a young actress who would not be using an old Shakespeare play in her debut.</p><p>She had been Welsh, he remembered from her accent, and had properly despised Welsh television for its few channels and low budgets which could not give her 80s childhood the proper introduction to the live-action entertainment industry.</p><p>Aziraphale smiled at the idea, for it had been Crowley to take credit for the disaster of programming.<sup>9</sup> Whether he had really created such a thing was another debate entirely, but the spirit was there, and the actress’s passion had been unmeasurable, her pursuit and ambition stemming from the very convenience that should have kept her away from it. <sup>10</sup></p><p>That, he supposed, was a human trait worthy of love.</p><p>
  <em> Purifying the holy rock to melt the gilded seams </em>
</p><p>A faint glow came from underfoot, but Aziraphale paid it no mind, the light only warming his insides in the pleasant way that a nice meal consisting of only fruit and six cups of wine may. Or perhaps company, if that company were the result of a centuries-old temptation and the owner of a particularly maddening speedometer which seemed never to wear the tires.</p><p>
  <em> It don't bring me relief, no it don't bring me nothing that </em>
</p><p>He sat upon the grass now, a faint glimmer of sun shining through the thinning layer of clouds to lightly brush the courtyard. It slowly brightened the surroundings, shadows growing soft and darker as the landscape paled with the little sunlight. It felt cold upon Aziraphale’s skin, but he paid no mind in his waterlogged state.</p><p>At least it kept away the fire.</p><p>
  <em> You were the song that I'd always sing </em>
</p><p>The party inside seemed oblivious to all but their own pleasures, and they continued blissfully ignorant of the courtyard, of the stranger who appeared next to Aziraphale’s seat on the ground.</p><p>A shadow in the little light which bled through the clouds.</p><p>It reminded him a lot of the incorrect Antichrist, if he were to be honest—and, truly, he was trying for the moment. He remembered the kid vaguely, as if it were but a fever dream of overrun gardens and silent halls but for a faint tapping of shoes upon the tiles.</p><p>
  <em> You were the light that the fire would bring </em>
</p><p>The Dowlings had never been the kindest lot, their smiles all riddled with responsibility which they could barely bear. Even reserved Harriet could be found scoffing at certain English customs in which her husband often forced her to partake.</p><p>Ambassadors, indeed, and yet they couldn’t even make time for their own son. Not even his eleventh birthday. For all that Heaven was barren and cold, the Dowling house could rival even the greatest stretches of desert in its scorching shame and chilling floors.</p><p>A simple <em> hello </em>could be left echoing and lost within the void of apathy which was that house.</p><p>It was much a shame when words lost their way so simply.</p><p>
  <em> But I can't shake this feeling that I was only </em>
</p><p>“Hallo,” said the figure—and here was a ghost, old greetings bundled and misshapen through time. It was shaped much like a man but oozing an otherworldly aura. The voice seemed to resonate from an old receiver, for all that it fuzzed and crackled in Aziraphale’s hearing.</p><p>There were a few more words spoken, but he could not hear. Only static reached him, and the figure had, at some point, sat beside him. On the same level, Aziraphale recognized the all-too familiar red hair and sunglasses—not too helpful at the moment, what with the clouds. It was drizzling now, and the music of the raindrops did not reach him.</p><p>
  <em> Pushing the spear into your side again </em>
</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he replied after what must have been a lengthy silence. The rain had not ceased in this time, and he silently cursed it, for all that he wished to hide old wrath. “What was it you were saying?” He internally cringed, the words—those same words from the Beginning—trickling unconsciously back into his speech.</p><p>“I <em> said” </em>—my, wasn’t that familiar— “oh, nevermind that.” There was a shuffling, and then no longer was there grass underfoot. There was a feeling of disorientation as Aziraphale found himself leaning back in a familiar, plush chair.</p><p>Except, it wasn’t how one would normal lean back in one—instead, more accurately, Aziraphale found himself leaning back <em> onto the edge </em>of the familiar, plush chair’s cushion. Under him was worn carpet, stained with multitudes of wine and water droplets, footprints of the past etched into the floors underneath. Almost like a book, one could examine the strange discolorations and extract an entire history of betrayal and trust, of the corporeal chapter in their story.</p><p>
  <em> And again and again </em>
</p><p>“Well,” he croaked and licked his lips in hesitation, “could have warned me.” His hands gripped at his own clothes, the heels of his feet digging into the tome of mistakes which had seeped into the carpet.</p><p>The air smelled of sulphur, but below it was the layer of dust and perfectly measured incense.<sup>11</sup> Above that lay a thin covering of rain, and the windows tapped with the remaining downpour which had since evaded the courtyard.</p><p>
  <em> When he comes a knocking at my door </em>
</p><p>“Trust me.” Crowley had seated himself along the couch, taking up as much space as possible on the surface. “Only so much driving you could do through the millennia before space starts bending itself. Same outcome.”</p><p>“I thought—but your car?”</p><p>Crowley shrugged. “Out front.” He waved his hand nonchalantly, as if warding away the air itself. Sulphur faded, and petrichor began.</p><p>
  <em> What am I to do, What am I to do, oh lord </em>
</p><p>Aziraphale studied him for a moment, squinting, watching as flashes of gold appeared behind dark shades.</p><p>
  <em> When the cold wind rolls in from the north </em>
</p><p>“What’re you looking at me for?” </p><p>
  <em> What am I to do, What am I to do, oh lord </em>
</p><p>“It’s the rain, isn't it?” asked Aziraphale.</p><p>
  <em> When he comes a knocking at my door </em>
</p><p>“Ngh! No. No, of course not!”</p><p>
  <em> What am I to do, what am I to do, oh lord </em>
</p><p>“It certainly never bothered you before.”</p><p>“No; and it still doesn't, at all. The rain’s fine, never holy in this place.” He shook his head, and the glasses slipped from their place. Yellow flashed over the rims, incandescent in the dim backroom light. “No, it's the bloody puddles I can't stand. And the mud.” He gestured forward at Aziraphale. “Already have enough of it inside as is.”</p><p>
  <em> When the cold wind rolls in from the north </em>
</p><p>Aziraphale looked down at his hands, covered in damp grass stained and dirt which had rubbed onto his waistcoat. “Right,” he said simply. </p><p>
  <em> What am I to do, what am I to do, oh lord </em>
</p><p>There was a moment when no one spoke, a merging of warmth and chill overtaking the room at once as the rain quieted on the windows. Heaven, Hell. What did it matter where there was grass and storms and thunder? What did they matter when their light and darkness would not care to touch anything but those ignorant souls which only covet security?</p><p>“You’re my best friend,” Aziraphale finally pronounced, staring blankly at the carpet. Disobedience soared in his heart, and his voice raised with a smile. “You know that, right?”</p><p>
  <em> When he comes a knocking at my door </em>
</p><p>There! a tremor, unlike the cool sliding of a snake. <em>“NGK!” </em>said the serpent, and he seeped deeper into the couch’s cushions. “Yeah. Yes. Totally. You too. Yeah…”</p><p>
  <em> What am I to do, what am I to do, oh lord </em>
</p><p>No more words were needed, poems unfit for conversations so old.</p><p>Earth had not ended, and scrolls continued to age in their ancient tombs. Rain kept falling, and vintage cars still needed no petrol. Humans lived on, with their midnight parties and bubbled champagne.</p><p>
  <em> When the cold wind rolls in from the north </em>
</p><p>Angels and Demons still fought, but angel and demon toasted to a life of their own, where they sided for their own beliefs.</p><p><em> To the world, </em> they had said. <em> To us, </em>said a silent wish.</p><p>
  <em> What am I to do, what am I to do, oh lord </em>
</p><p>Perhaps, not just miracles could be granted on Earth, stars were not needed in their twinkling to light a cloudy night as they fell, faster and faster as dreams burned in a tumult of songs, and wishes spoken did not immediately lose value.</p><p>Perhaps, there were no cards in this game of existence that had yet to be overturned. Each hand not so perfectly placed, and yet losers preached their luck in shouts of crowns and snake tongues. They had come to the end, where elements of earth lay only in the deal of Eden.<sup>12</sup></p><p>And, perhaps, just maybe, fire could be comforting, a force against rain when that rain changed from pleasant to chilling. </p><p>Just maybe, words only had so much meaning, and it was by the listener they were granted power. </p><p>Just <em> maybe— </em>if the world had sought to prove anything so far—there was one truth: nothing was inherently good or bad. </p><p>Ineffably, it was all just inherently human.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>1 Gaius Julius Caesar, also known as Octavianus or Augustus, was the grand-nephew and adopted son of Julius Caesar, who, in the Shakespeare play, is stabbed twenty-three times. Octavianus took the Roman throne after his death.</p><p>2 Aschenputtel by the Brothers Grimm, Cinderella in its English translation, is most notable for its fairy godmother and glass slipper. However, its not so Disney origin involved a tree with the soul of Cinderella’s dead mother, the step-sisters cutting their feet to fit in the slipper, and birds pecking out the eyes of the evil mother and daughters.</p><p>3 In Good Omens, Aziraphale is entitled “Guardian of the Eastern Gate.” In subsequent interviews and another book, The Nice and Accurate Good Omens TV Companion, his bookshop is decidedly placed on the east side of the street in Soho.</p><p>4 Archangels are tasked with earthly matters, oftentimes pertaining to humans. This puts Aziraphale, a principality tasked with a job on Earth, under their supervision as long as he stays near the humans. Also, Michael and Sandalphon are just scary, and you don’t want to mess with them. Not to mention Gabriel.</p><p>5 In the tv series, only Aziraphale and Crowley ever show their wings, so it is a common speculation that (in that universe specifically) all demon wings are black and all angel wings are white. In the book, though, angel and demon wings are said to look exactly the same, only that an angel's wings are less groomed.</p><p>6 “Jesus said to the servants, ‘Fill the jars with water’; so they filled them to the brim. / Then he told them, ‘Now draw some out and take it to the master of the banquet.’ They did so, / and the master of the banquet tasted the water that had been turned into wine. [...]  / and said, “Everyone brings out the choice wine first and then the cheaper wine after the guests have had too much to drink; but you have saved the best till now.’ / What Jesus did here in Cana of Galilee was the first of the signs through which he revealed his glory; and his disciples believed in him.” John 2:7-11</p><p>7 “The Arrangement was very simple, so simple in fact that it didn’t really deserve the capital letter, which it had got for simply being in existence for so long. It was the sort of sensible arrangement that many isolated agents, working in awkward conditions a long way from their superiors, reach with their opposite number when they realize that they have more in common with their immediate opponents than their remote allies.” - Good Omens, pg. 38</p><p>8 (See 6)</p><p>9 The issue of accessible Welsh-language television became politicized in the 1970s, and the 1979 election was overrun with promises for Welsh programs. S4C, the Welsh fourth channel, launched only after the leader of the nationalist party pressured the Prime Minister by threatening to go on a hunger strike. Let’s just say, it seemed like demonic intervention to some of the occult forces, and someone got an accommodation for it.</p><p>10 In an ongoing list of mine (I’m trying to be thorough and therefore rereading the book completely), Crowley created the M25, Welsh-language television, value-added tax, Manchester, electronic voice connection, Glasgow, television game shows, etc. But he is also credited with both the Spanish Inquisition and Milton Keynes (which Aziraphale also took credit for in his own report) despite his uninvolvement. What he does create always seems to backfire, either being good for someone or inconveniencing himself.</p><p>11 A terrible smell is a sure way to deter customers from actually staying long enough to buy something.</p><p>12 “God does not play dice with the universe; He plays an ineffable game of His own devising, which might be compared, from the perspective of any of the other players [i.e. everybody], to being involved in an obscure and complex variant of poker in a pitch-dark room, with blank cards, for infinite stakes, with a Dealer who won't tell you the rules, and who smiles all the time.” - Good Omens, pg. 11-12</p></blockquote></div></div>
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